Jack followed aimlessly, his hands in his pockets, his new Stetson--that did not look so unusual here in Quincy--pulled well down over his eyebrows and giving his face an unaccustomed look of purposefulness.

Those he met carried letters and papers in their hands; those he followed went empty handed, so Jack guessed that he was observing the regular morning pilgrimage to the postoffice--which, had he only known it, really begins the day in Quincy.
He did not expect any mail, of course; but there seemed nothing else for him to do, no other place for him to go; and he was afraid that if he stayed around the hotel some one might ask him to register.

He went, therefore, to the postoffice and stood just outside the door with his hands still in his pockets and the purposeful look on his face; whereas no man was ever more completely adrift and purposeless than was Jack Corey.

Now that he had lost himself from the world--buried himself up here in these wonderfully green mountains where no one would ever think of looking for him--there seemed nothing at all to do.

He did not even want to go fishing.